fleeting tomorrows
by doroniasobi
Summary: the clock is ticking; it's mid April. tick. tick. tick. — Roy, Riza


**A/N: First FMA fic! I've been writing for a lot of new fandoms lately, haha. I'm not complaining; it looks cool and funky on my profile. Enjoy!**

* * *

It comes out of nowhere.

They're sitting together, with Colonel Mustang flipping through papers and files, fumbling with his fingers with a pen, eyebrow creased in a mix of emotions—disbelief, concentration, maybe even frustration. He's writing with his pen—if you could call it that, anyway; in truth, he was just moving his pen along to the rhythm of music playing through his head. A solemn waltz, beats times three, with the whole orchestra playing behind him, melding notes and voices together, the bass and tones synchronizing, entwining themselves together.

After a while, he puts the pen down and looks over at Lieutenant Hawkeye, whose eyes are closed, hands clasped together. She's been staring at the same empty space for the last six—maybe seven—minutes, and finally, Mustang leans over saying "What are you doing, Lieutenant?" at the exact moment Riza Hawkeye says "I can't take Hayate with me".

And for a second, Mustang's brow twitches and he wonders what kind of problem in the military would require her taking Hayate along—he's still a puppy, still young and not fully trained yet, though with a greater amount of undivided loyalty in his eyes than in the hearts of five men. It still doesn't make any sense, because Mustang has been awake and paying attention to whatever meetings they've had in the last week—and Riza was the one making sure of that, so she should know better than he did.

So he frowns and says "what?" and Riza unclasps her hands and takes the clip out of her hair, letting it roll down her shoulders, and stares at Mustang.

"I'm being transferred."

Transferred—it takes a while for the definition to run through his head at first.

_Transferred (v). To convey or cause to pass from one place, person, or thing to another. To convey from one surface to another_.

Something clicks into place.

_To move oneself from one location or job to another._

"And I'm going," she finishes. Her eyes won't meet his.

Mustang stares back at her. Nothing has sunk in yet. "What?"

"Transferal."

"Hayate," he says.

Her eyes swivel to the left. "Can't."

"...When?"

"Two months."

"In September. One year. Two years from now. Never," he presses. "Never."

She still doesn't look at him. "No," she says, and Mustang _knew_, but it still hits him. "I'm sorry." He can hear the regret in her voice. But it's not enough.

Her eyes stare at the window pane. Mustang watches with her. The sky is grey, magnificent. Clouds are coming in from the west, the east—everywhere. The citizens are hurrying up and down the streets to avoid being drenched. Mustang wonders when the rain will fall.

His ears catch the sound of the clock, and only when he notices does he realize how quiet it is in his office.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Riza brushes a stray strand of hair out of her eyes. Mustang can see the silver stud on her ear shine and glare with inferior blaze. She's strong, he reminds himself. She's very, very strong. She's pressed a gun to my back before, she's always got _my_ back, she's—

_Transferal._

It's mid April.

* * *

In his mind, it becomes a countdown, even though he never meant for it to be.

He arrives at home that day and buries his face in his hands, makes it an almost casual thing, like he does this all the time when he comes home. _Don't worry—there are only seventy-one days left—don't worry—_and suddenly he begins to wake up with a number in his head, each day smaller than the previous.

_Sixty-two_, his head tells him, like there's a calendar there or something. _Today is sixty-_two. He stays nonchalant. Time is ticking anyway.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

When Mustang walks into his office, he pretends that there isn't a clock glaring in his face every time he looks up.

* * *

He feels like a child. If he had to blame anyone, he'd blame himself. And then the higher-uppers, and then some. Sometimes he stands in front of their door, his hair bristling, and then he _deflates_ because he knows that if he tries anything, it'll all get out of control—like that time he tried to kill Envy. If he loses his head this time 'round, Riza Hawkeye will not be there to point a gun at his back and force him to think.

The one time he does gather his guts and asks them _why—why are you taking her away from me?_, they only shake their heads.

"You're capable," is their only answer. "You're capable of handling herself. She—we need her elsewhere. She's skilled, too."

_No_, his thoughts rage. _No—I need her. I _need_ her._

He is about to yell, when all of a sudden, Riza comes into view. She stops in the hallway, eyes wide, hand going in her pocket, reaching for her handgun. For a moment, he's taken in. _Stop me_, he beckons. _Stop me from losing control, like you did before. Lieutenant, _do _it_.

"It's nothing, Lieutenant Hawkeye," the higher-uppers digress. "Continue with your work, please; this little puppy just needs to be coddled for a bit."

_No_. His eyes are glaring at his lieutenant now. _No, no—I am your Colonel! Lieutenant, do as I say. You can read my gestures, right? You know what this means, don't you? This is an order!_

She says nothing. Her hand drops the gun in her pocket and she walks straight on by.

"What are you—" he starts, but the sound of a gun cocking is behind his head, and he almost smirks.

"Colonel." Her voice is firm. "Drop the stupid threats and get back to your office."

The higher-uppers glare at her. "Lieutenant Hawkeye," one says. "Defying orders—"

"I do not know what you are talking about," she says to them, closing her eyes and putting her gun away. "He is my Colonel, and until the very, very last minute, I will continue to follow orders from him. You have no right to stop me from doing so. Am I correct?"

Last warning, they say, but head back to their work anyway. Hawkeye drops the fierce impression and frowns at Mustang. At this point in time, they're just themselves. That's all Mustang has ever wanted for them to be. And to stay like that.

"Colonel," she begins, folding her arms against her chest. "Really? You're such a child."

"I don't know what you're talking about. Now—back to work, Lieutenant," he demands. "We have a lot of things to do today."

She sighs, but there's a smile on her face as she salutes. "Yes, sir."

It feels normal. Like nothing's changed. Like there was no transferal to begin with.

Mustang contents himself with fifty-five days more.

* * *

Havoc finds out when there are only forty-two days left.

"But—but I thought you had the whole _thing_ going on here!" He does a hand gesture, which includes the flapping of arms back and forth and poking fingers. Mustang doesn't know what he's trying to say, but he thinks that he looks ridiculous. "I thought you were going to, y'know—stay Colonel and Lieutenant, like, _forever_!"

Mustang only shrugs, ignores the pounding of his heart in that barred cage. "It wasn't her choice. Wasn't mine, either."

Havoc drops his arms. "And...you're okay with this?" Mustang has to catch himself giving the default response to those kinds of questions—"Yeah, I'm fine."

"Like, has anything even _happened_ yet?"

Mustang narrows his eyes. "_Happened_?" he repeats.

"For a state alchemist, you sure are stupid when it comes to romance," Havoc tells him, poking him in the chest. He sighs. "I saw her last night, you know. With her dog. It's learned the bite, you know—stupid mutt."

Mustang's heart almost leaps. It's completely irrational. "Oh?"

"She told me she didn't mind being let go of." Havoc sighs. "I don't _get_ the two of you. There's obviously this _thing_ that's there, and you still won't do anything about it! I mean, how long have you known each other again?"

_Far too long._

"She's so weird," Havoc continues to say, frowning. "Why would she say something like that?"

"She's not," Mustang finds himself defending. Because. Because he believes in Riza. He believes in her—he believes in what she knows, how she acts, and what she'll do. And he's only doing so good a job at convincing himself that he's not an idiot for simply believing.

Because he might be, but until then, he'll refuse to _stop_ believing. It's the only thing he's got now.

* * *

She stops picking the phone up at the beginning of July. And he knows that she's busy, but damn it, can't she just—call back? It wouldn't take more than two minutes. Two minutes. Maybe even one. Thirty seconds. The awkward dissolution of feeling seeps into him and weighs heavily in his bones. He keeps standing, but wonders how long he can keep himself up.

A day goes off in his head: _thirty to go, Mustang. What are you going to do?_

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

* * *

She stops coming to the office altogether. The higher-uppers announce it to everyone in a meeting, saying things like _we're very happy for her, that she's leveled up as both a person and a soldier, and we're absolutely positive she'll do fine there_. There's an ache growing in the heart of his stomach, a succinct blow, making him think the worst. It happens every beat. Each time it defies expectation, and maybe something else is gone because of it.

He doesn't know. He has enough to spare, anyway, because she's finally told him from her actions that she doesn't want it.

A week. A week is seven days.

He wishes it was forever. Who will watch his back?

(Tick. Tick. Tick tick tick tick tick—)

* * *

Once—and this is when the two of them were younger; when Mustang was still gangly and awkward and rather tall for a man his age, still in contact with Professor Hawkeye—Riza tells him that everyone was trying to look for forever, even though the truth was that there wasn't a forever. There would never be one.

_There isn't a forever,_ she'd said, solemnly, as she placed a teacup down on the wooden table. _It's why I don't want to find anyone now; if I find them too early, then they'll be gone too soon. I don't want that._

_How about me?_ Mustang remembered asking. He hadn't believed anything that Riza said regarding forevers.

She'd stared at him for a little while. _Hm,_ she'd began. _You're a bit different, I guess. Okay, then I'll take back everything I just said. Forever is in friendships._

He scoffs. _Then, _he begins, a_re we friends?_

He remembers Riza's little shrug, remembers her small smile. _I guess,_ she says. _Something tells me that there will always be something more._

He hasn't forgotten yet, but he's only got three days to figure everything out.

* * *

They're at the train station at exactly twelve fifty-four just a bit after noon. Riza picks up her bags and heaves them on board; Mustang has his hands in his pocket, eyes glued to the ground.

"Don't die," he says, frowning.

"You ordered that years ago," she reminds him, quirking an eyebrow. "I won't."

"It was never an order." His face softens, almost into a smile, but not quite. He can't smile. Not just yet. "It was a promise," he clarifies. "One that I'm expecting you to keep, Lieutenant. At least until after I'm dead."

"Always the pessimistic bastard, hm? No offence to you, of course."

Mustang rolls his eyes. "Well, no one to keep me in check anymore." His words feel like acid on his tongue. For once—just this once, and he'll never ask again, he'd like to stop time. Stop time, change the world (change _his_ world) so that she'd always be there, even though he knows that she would.

The horn blows, and as she turns around, everything stops.

"Friendships are forever," he blurts.

She stops. The horn blows once more, buffeting black smoke into the air and a distinct combination of gas and smoke wafts up his nose. He rubs it, irritated, and looks away.

"Has anyone ever told you how stupid you are, Colonel?"

Roy coughs, sputters into his hand. "_Excuse _me?"

"You're excused," she tells him. A smile wafts it way onto her face. "I'll see you."

And for a moment, they are not just the Colonel and his Lieutenant. Roy sees how they used to be—people with no ranks, no pressure, no paperwork to shape them into who they are. Until that image has faded, Roy knows he'll never let it go.

"Yeah."

He watches her board, watches the train heave off into the distance. He shoves his hands into his pockets. Twenty minutes later, he's still out there, nose pink and eyes closed, pretending that he's curled up against himself, and realizes that he hasn't been truly, properly warm since he left his bed this morning.

And he'll see her again. An hour passes, and that hope still lingers. Next week, maybe he'll call her. And maybe the next, he'll call again. (Maybe even after that, she'll bother calling him.)

But tomorrow—Roy lifts his face, feels the cold and his cheeks numb—

Tomorrow is a new day.

* * *

_Owari_

_2011.02.11  
_


End file.
